Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Strolling between university buildings while doing my job a couple of Saturdays ago, I stepped on an icy patch and found myself briefly airborne. A bruised tailbone and aching elbow left me hobbling for the remainder of my workday.
Once the shift ended at 11 p.m., I limped to my car, parked off-campus, only to discover that my keys had vanished from my pocket. I could see through the windshield that they weren't still in the ignition or on the seat. Feeling like some fedora-clad gumshoe, I decided to retrace my steps, brimming with certainty that the keys would turn up. But an hour-long search, especially in the vicinity of my fall, bore no fruit, so I caught the last LRT train to my abode.
At home I began a more frenzied search through boxes for the spare I hadn't seen in years. No luck.
That night I had no sleep. I replayed the day over and over in my head. If only I could remember some forgotten detour, there in the heavy snow would lie my keys, shiny in the midday sun. By morning, I'd decided to break into my car, convinced in my sleepless delirium that I'd find the key magically wedged in or under the seat.
I carried a car-thief kit – screwdriver, needle-nose pliers and coat hanger – and was inside the vehicle in less than two minutes. Not surprisingly, my hopeful theory proved false. The university lost-and-found wouldn't open till Monday, so I slouched homeward, continuing to weigh my options.
Enough of this, I thought. On to Cyberworld! I posted ads on Kijiji and Craigslist. Ever the Walter Mitty-esque optimist, I half-expected my phone to start ringing within minutes. But days and days of phone silence lay ahead.
A call to a Chrysler dealership provided the cheerful news that if I could quote the car's VIN and show up with ownership papers they'd cut me a new key for $20. Deal, I thought. Of course, this required a return trip via public transport to break into my car again and retrieve the documentation. Aw shucks, no problem.
This trip was poorly thought out. By the time I arrived, it was nearly 6 p.m. and growing dark. Just as I began, it started to snow, first lightly, then with great gusto. My fingers were freezing as I struggled for more than an hour, screwdriver in one hand prying at the door, the other hand clumsily manipulating the wire to try to hook the lock.
As the wire became horribly kinked, I worried that my expletives were becoming more audible. "Okay Gerry," I thought. "Here's the plan: Just extract the wire, use the pliers to straighten out the kinks and give it one … more … shot!" On the first impatient pull, my wet hand slipped along the wire, and the barbed end buried itself in my little finger. I yelped in pain. The wire went deep, and when I pulled it out, blood started running into the palm of my hand. I came to my senses then, reasoning that my bleeding finger was more urgent than opening the car.
There was a pizza place within a block. They knew me, so I didn't feel shy about pestering them for a bandage. But a new girl was at the till. She saw my bloodied hand, turned ashen and ran into the back with her hand over mouth, muttering that she's made sick by the sight of blood. I grabbed some napkins and bolted.
On the train ride home, I tried to ignore the burden of my failure while tending to my still-bleeding finger. It was clear from the furtive glances that I'd become one of those deranged untouchables I'd seen on other trains.
Next day, I called lost-and-found. No good news. I sat, phone in hand, staring at the kitchen wall, imagining a pretty student rushing to class. She'd stoop for a moment to pick up a set of keys she saw in the snow, toss them in her backpack and hurry on. Months later, when … Oh, for the love of God, Gerry, give it a rest.
My brother, Glen, called and kindly offered to drive me to the car. We broke in without delay. Thank you, daylight! We stopped at a dealership. The young guy at the desk seemed eager to help. An older, "more experienced" employee was seated next to him. He was one of those guys who makes me want to claw my face: a compulsive whistler. I was barely into explaining my predicament to the young fellow before The Whistler cut in with a "Nope, can't help you. The key code you need wasn't available that year. You'll have to remove the ignition casing on the steering column and take it to a locksmith."
The spectre of my near-legendary mechanical inability appeared before me. "You're sure about that?" I asked. "110 per cent!" came the reply. And he went back to his infernal habit.
Glen dropped me and my disgust at my place. I was wondering if the $20 fix had risen to $100 or even $200. On a lark, I consulted the Yellow Pages one more time, and saw a dealership I'd missed. I called and the fellow on the phone, after entering my VIN into his computer, said: "Yes, I can cut you one for $24.95." Uh-huh. Here we go again. But Glen picked me up, we raced over and lo and behold, I had a new key cut within 10 minutes. Peace once again reigned in happy valley.
The next time you're having a bad day, read this and know that you are not alone.
Gerry Cook lives in Edmonton.